


Thorns

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bondage, Cousin Incest, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Torture, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maedhros just wants to be punished.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Punishment” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Chains?” Maedhros asks as the silver metal winds about his skin. Fingon lifts both wrists together, binding them all the way down to the elbow. He has to pull it tight to keep Maedhros taut or the one arm without a hand to tie will slip. Both are pushed above his head, and Fingon threads the chains through an iron ring in the dungeon wall. Maedhros is bound to the cell, pulled high up to his toes, sucks in a breath, and asks, “Am I not tall enough already?”

Fingon, not that much shorter, sighs, “How else am I to punish you?” His eyes flicker from their work to Maedhros’ gaze, his expression heavy. He’s worn a steady frown since Maedhros first asked for this. The dungeons are no place for Elven lords.

But Maedhros has no right to that title anymore. He bowed to Fingon’s line, but it wasn’t enough, doesn’t absolve him of all his crimes. Fingon makes a withered noise and tsks, “I have little option—I will not strike you.”

“Tying me is not enough for all I have done.” This submission shouldn’t be anywhere _near_ enough to repay Fingon for all that he’s given. But Fingon just tilts his head sideways and leans in a fraction more, his hands sliding down from Maedhros’ elbows to rest at his shoulders. Their lips come together, just a gentle brush, that Maedhros tries to pull away from. The last thing he wants right now is _reward_.

Fingon seems to know this and pulls back with a click of his tongue. His thumbs trace soft circles into Maedhros’ shoulders through his tunic. Then Fingon slides them down, raking over Maedhros’ chest, pushing back up again, just _feeling_ , and Maedhros has to fight the interest it automatically stirs in him. There’s nothing cruel in Fingon’s touch, never is, even though Maedhros has seen on the battlefield the violence Fingon’s capable of. It never reaches him. Not after he followed his father into exile, not after he burned the ships, not after he rallied to his father’s cause against a more worthy banner and took a traitorous oath. He knows Fingon’s forgiven him, but he can’t forgive himself, and he urges, “Findekáno, _please._ ”

Fingon mutters, “What would you have me do?” He touches while he talks, now tracing the line where Maedhros’ tunic is tucked into his breeches. He would happily be _that_ kind of prisoner, but that won’t relieve his burden; he would enjoy it too much. He opens his mouth, ready to insist that he _needs_ to be struck, but Fingon asks for him, “Do you not have enough scars, my Maitimo?”

Maedhros winces. Only with Fingon does he ever forget he has them. Fingon never looks at him any differently, though his hair’s been cut shorter than any other elf’s and his flesh is a mosaic of imperfections. He answers quietly, having thought of this many times, “Morgoth had no right to mar me like this, but you do. And if I am to bear his brands, I should bear yours as well.”

Fingon looks at him for a moment. Maedhros feeds all the fire he has left into his gaze, trying to show how serious he is, but Fingon murmurs sadly, “I will not give them to you.” Maedhros makes a frustrated noise, but Fingon doesn’t let him say again how badly _he needs this_. Fingon steels over and commands, “No, my Nelyo. You will stay here, powerless to run, as I shower you in the love you deserve.”

“Fingon—” Maedhros hisses through a grimace, only to be cut off. Fingon presses in for another kiss, this time reaching a hand to fist in Maedhros’ hair, holding him in place. It muffles Maedhros’ show of protest and holds him in, keeps him there as Fingon breathes against him. Maedhros shudders and wonders how hard he would have to fight to jerk free of these chains. It would defeat the purpose of the exercise, but Fingon’s ruined it anyway. Fingon tilts for another angle, tongue tracing lightly along Maedhros’ bottom lip, and begins to tug at the crisscrossing strings that hold Maedhros’ tunic together. 

As soon as it’s open, Fingon spreads the pieces wide, hands tracing from Maedhros’ front to sides. His thumbs catch on Maedhros’ nipples, thumbing them in the cold dungeon air while his teeth nip at Maedhros’ bottom lip. Maedhros gives an aggravated grunt but obeys, opening. He’s swiftly filled with Fingon’s tongue, slowly circling his mouth—the sort of careless, leisurely kiss they used to share back in Valinor, when there was nothing to do for days but lie with one another. 

Then Fingon’s fingertips trail across a particularly deep scar. Fingon is careful and knows just how to touch him—it doesn’t sting, not physically, but his flesh is twice as sensitive where Morgoth cut him open, and feeling Fingon’s perfection against those patches of darkness always irks him. Sometimes he wishes Fingon hadn’t come for him but moved on instead, to someone still innocent and beautiful. 

Fingon traces Maedhros’ scars with reverence. He sucks on Maedhros’ tongue as he fingers the gash across Maedhros’ left breast and thumbs the splattered burn along Maedhros’ right hip. Parting their lips just enough to speak, Fingon purrs, “You are so handsome, my love. Scars and all...”

He gives Maedhros another peck, and the second it’s over, Maedhros pleads, “ _Stop._ ”

“You are still exquisite,” Fingon insists. He finishes with both scars and slides around to Maedhros’ back, forced closer by it in a tight embrace. Each brush of Fingon against him, even through the remaining clothes, is a new torture for Maedhros. Fingon nuzzles fondly into the side of Maedhros’ face and sighs, “How sad it is that _this_ is the true punishment for you: being loved when you think yourself unlovable for all that you have done and been through. For what your father turned you into, and what cruelties were carved into you...”

It is sad. That makes it no less true. It would be easier if Fingon beat him and blamed him for his crimes. 

Fingon chastely kisses the shell of his broken ear and murmurs into it, “Bear it, Maedhros. That will be what I ask of you. If not for yourself, then because you have given yourself to me as my prisoner. Stay where I put you and _listen_ to me when I say _I forgive you._ For all of it. For the tension in Valinor, for the ship we didn’t take together, for the foolish oath you took and the havoc you helped wreak. I still love you—I always have and I always will. And you will hear me when I say _you are worthy of that_...”

Maedhros shivers again and jerks at his bonds, but Fingon pins him quickly to the wall, jamming knees and hips against him. Fingon spreads his mouth along Maedhros’ jaw, licking over it with a light scrape of teeth to make the sensation inescapable. Fingon spreads his hands and runs all ten fingers down Maedhros’ chest, tracing each muscle and pausing at every scar, right to the tie of his breeches. Fingon kisses Maedhros’ throat while he works that tie open. The rest of the dark cell is forgotten, and all Maedhros can see is Fingon’s radiance: the long, silken black hair that cascades down his shoulders, the bright gold tie twisted into one side, the sky-blue robes that make him look like the _prince_ he is, and the beauty of his face. He reaches into Maedhros’ breeches and cups Maedhros’ crotch. Even that’s damaged—his thighs are streaked in cuts from the knives of Morgoth’s servants. He thought he would never be able to get hard again, to _enjoy_ anything, but then he returned to Fingon’s arms and Fingon coaxed him back to health, to life, to _pleasure_. It isn’t fair that Fingon should have all that extra work, but Fingon wraps around Maedhros’ shaft like nothing’s changed and gently starts to pump.

Maedhros chokes, “ _Please_ —” and is swiftly filled with Fingon’s tongue again. He’s given a little squeeze that makes him gasp, and the more he opens, the more Fingon feeds him. His body’s flattened into the stone as Fingon bears over him, grinding them together—Maedhros shifts and squirms, no longer sure if he’s really trying to get away or trying to give into _more_ —he could probably break free but won’t, not when he’s already given himself over. And he doesn’t have the will to pull away. Not again. Fingon’s intoxicating, and each subtle twist of his fingers sends Maedhros into a flurry of bliss that he never thought he’d have again.

“I love you,” Fingon hisses between them, returning to a kiss right after, then pausing to lick at Maedhros’ lips and purr, “You are as enchanting to me now as you always were. I wish you would _smile_ more, but I understand, and I love you no less for it.” Maedhros wraps his one hand around the ring that holds him up, the chains cutting into his flesh as he strains forward, arching into Fingon. “I know the world has changed and we have changed with it, but _we_ are the same. And I would not sully it with your penance—I do not want your pain or self-pity; I want you to forgive _yourself_.” He can’t. Fingon presses one kiss after another into Maedhros’ mouth like the sheer force of Fingon’s ardour will burn all the rest away. In the height of Maedhros’ pleasure, he actually thinks it might. Fingon plays him to the peak, stroking him and running soothing fingers through what’s left of his hair, rocking their chests together and kissing every little part of his face. “I have _never_ regretted going to you when all the others, even Fëanor himself, would not, and I have never regretted my choice of you. I will fade from this world with you or I will go to you in Mandos’ halls, but there will never be a time when I am not with your or waiting for you, for I think of you more than anything else...”

“ _Fingon_...”

He wants to return the favour. He wants to say it all, _how much he adores Fingon_ , wants to cling to Fingon like a child or push Fingon down and ride him, pleasure him properly, but Fingon leaves no room for any of it. He kisses Maedhros hard and converges on Maedhros’ body. He bites into Maedhros’ ear, the first real bout of _pain_ , but lets go a second later to lave over it and hiss, “ _I love you, my Maedhros_...”

And Maedhros can’t take it anymore and bursts, spilling into Fingon’s hand and crying out. He feels broken, swarmed with heat and overrun, losing all senses but that of touch everywhere Fingon holds him. Fingon pumps him right through it and kisses him lightly, while Maedhros shudders and writhes and melts into a pool of nothingness. It’s as emotionally exhausting as it is physically.

It’s worse. He’s emptied out and left to slump in Fingon’s arms, choking back a little sob. Fingon reaches up for the chains and swiftly unties them from the ring until there’s nothing holding Maedhros up. Immediately, he slinks towards the floor. 

He lands in a heap on his rear, his arms, still bound from wrist to elbow, falling into his lap. Dizzy and panting, he’s not sure anymore if he still needs Fingon to strike him. 

Fingon bends down to take hold of two ends of the chains and pulls them, jerking Maedhros forward a fraction. Maedhros grunts as he’s pulled, looking sharply up. Fingon kneels down, his face as hard as it is when he leads his troops. He orders, “Now, you will come with me to my chambers where you belong, and you will be held as you deserve. That will be the extent of your punishment, and you will not ask me for more beyond it. Do you understand?”

Maedhros is too drained to fight. And it’s easier to obey, half because Fingon speaks like the prince he is and half because Maedhros just _wants to_.

He lets himself be pulled to his feet and untied, and he follows Fingon out of the dungeons, and he _tries_ to let go of the past.


End file.
